


Yeah, I'm no good

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bad Puns, Clint Has Issues, Fluffy Angst, Insecure Clint, Insecure Phil, M/M, Phil Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:18:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phillip Coulson does not hate many things, but he loathes Tuesdays with a passion.<br/>It's a fairly recent development, coinciding with the beginning of his blossoming relationship with Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yeah, I'm no good

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Numb" by Marina and the Diamonds. I nearly wrote a song fic about it but this came out instead.
> 
> 5 + 1 which was supposed to be short fluffy drabble but ended up laced with angst and some orphan tears. Clint is the orphan in this scenario.
> 
> See end notes for (vaguely spoilery) warnings.

1.

"Hey, Phil."

Phil raises his eyes from his paperwork to find an obnoxiously cheerful Clint Barton close enough to lean in and kiss.

Before he can stop it, his eyes drop to Clint's lips, and for a moment, Phil lets himself imagine actually kissing him, Clint's stubble scratchy against his skin, their noses crashing into each other, the tiny moans he'll elicit out of the archer-

When he raises his eyes again, Clint is completely impassive, but his eyes are tight around the corners.

"Is there anything you want to talk about?" Phil asks, and has the time to think _Oh, shit,_ when Clint's face shifts into a cheery grin, his eyes shuttered.

"Nah, not really. Just popped in to say hi."

With a jaunty salute, Clint turns tail, and if Phil didn't already know he messed up, he would have worked it out then by how Clint's back is nearly hunched, as if he's trying to protect himself, keeping himself from falling apart and betraying anything else.

It's only later that Phil realizes that this day was, in fact, a Tuesday.

 

2.

When Clint comes into his office on Tuesday, the day after they tentatively confessed their feelings for one another, Phil suffers from a moment's indecision.

He really wants to kiss Clint, but he's unsure of whether Clint will accept the display of affection, considering how new their relationship is.

After a moment, Phil casts his doubts aside. Clint is nothing if not vocal. Whenever he disagrees, he's loud and often brash, and Phil suspects that a number of their arguments stem from Clint just being contrary. This suspicion is further supported by the sly grin Clint often tries to hide whenever he forces Phil to concede over something.

He steps up to Clint, leaning forward hesitantly, telegraphing his intentions, and for a moment, a flash of hope crosses Clint's face, and Phil swears that he's about to reciprocate... but only for a moment.

The next moment, Clint's eyes shutter, and he takes a step back, face carefully neutral.

"Good to see you, Coulson."

Clint knows Phil's impassive face and bland smile are an act. He _knows_ how the deliberate usage of Phil's last name stings. Knowing Clint knows makes it hurt Phil even more, and he hesitates, unsure of how to greet Clint, before nodding his head curtly. "Barton."

He turns to head back to his desk, sitting himself down, eyes instinctively glancing at Clint, dropping to his paperwork before zooming back in at Clint's face before he manages to hide the hurt written in his eyes.

Phil frowns, because Clint doesn't lie to him. He hides things, yes, but if he's asked point blank, Clint will ask Phil to _"Please drop the subject"_ and Phil respects Clint's personal boundaries. He has some inkling of the reasons behind Clint's difficulties with trust, and his heart swells whenever Clint shows Phil he trusts him, but even so, Phil finds himself with a question at the tip of his tongue.

Asking _"Is something wrong?"_ is simple, really, but Phil takes a moment to look at Clint, _really_ look at him, and he sees the worry and the wariness hidden underneath the mask.

Clint doesn't want to talk about it. It's there, clean and simple, but Phil can't stand seeing the fear stamped across Clint's face, and his breath hitches when he realizes Clint is afraid of _him_ , afraid he'll push for information. 

Phil swallows, knowing this could backfire with explosive results, but he wants to reassure Clint, to tell him, _I know something is wrong, but I trust you to tell me on your own terms,_ so he ventures, "We don't have to talk about it."

Just like that, Clint's shoulders slump, and Phil sees the relief in his eyes before he closes them, taking a deep breath.

When he opens them again, he's all smiles. "Did you hear what happened to Agent Wu on the range this morning?" Clint asks, smug smirk lighting his eyes, and Phil doesn't resist the topic change, because as long as Clint is smiling, Phil is happy.

 

3.

Considering the lecherous grin Clint has plastered on his face, Phil thinks he can't be blamed for leaning in for a kiss.

He stops when a brief flash of anxiety crosses Clint's features, feeling his own brow furrow.

That's when Phil remembers that it's Tuesday.

His mind flicks back to the Tuesday only a week ago, then the Tuesday the week before, finding the pattern. Both times, Phil had wanted to kiss Clint, and both times, Clint didn't want to kiss Phil.

Phil really wishes that the realization didn't settle like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach, and he immediately resolves to attempt to confirm his hypothesis.

"May I kiss you?" he asks, putting all the warmth he can muster in his tone, trying not to make Clint feel obligated to accept.

Clint doesn't move, but his eyes are dead, and when they flick to the door, Phil knows he's searching for escape routes, planning a tactical retreat, because Phil has seen him do it before, has had his life saved by those sharp eyes.

Phil heaves a breath, because he can't have Clint leave, he can't have Clint feel pressured for something Phil only wants if Clint is willing to give. "Do you want to kiss me right now?" he tries instead, and tries to will Clint to understand.

When Clint's eyes light with gratitude, Phil feels a rush of happiness tempered by the creeping dread of his earlier epiphany. 

"I'd rather not today," Clint admits, voice soft, shy, as if no one has ever wanted to respect his opinion before. 

Phil is hit by the realization that he is the first person to actually respect Clint's wants as if it was a sledgehammer, and it sends him reeling, because knowing Clint had a _"rough childhood"_ (understatement of the year) from his file and seeing the effects are two completely different things.

Phil infuses every ounce of reassurance he has into his words. "That's perfectly fine," he says, and after a moment he adds, "Don't ever feel obligated to do something you aren't willing to give."

Clint beams and Phil's heart soars, and he listens with half an ear as Clint regales him with stories of how he terrified the latest batch of junior agents with the help of conveniently placed air vents and a shrieking yo-yo, mind hard at work creating a plan to try and ease Clint's concerns on Tuesdays.

 

4.

Clint is away on an op, and Phil is cranky.

He's cranky because he can't put his plan into motion, sure, but mostly he's cranky because he misses Clint's kaleidoscopic eyes and the mischievous smirk he has when he pops out of a vent and the way his face lights up when he sees Phil, but most of all... he misses _Clint_.

Phil tries his best to ignore it, attempting to work on his forms, but he can't stop thinking about Clint. He starts working on an asset transfer request and zones out halfway after being struck by a vivid memory of Clint shooting at the range, the muscles in his arms lithely shifting as he hits bullseye after bullseye with a precision that makes heat flicker in the pit of Phil's belly.

He's been staring off into space for quite a while, calling up memories of light playing across his boyfriend's expressive eyes, so when Clint drops out of the vent into his office, Phil thinks it's a hallucination.

"Hey," he offers, because the hallucination is damn good, blonde hair tousled, eyes iridescent in his office's light, and hallucination-Clint stares for a moment before chuckling.

"It's almost eleven, sir," he says softly, and Phil frowns before blearily looking down at his paperwork and being greeted with doodles of a bow and arrow scrawled across a spare requisitional form.

"I need to work," Phil complains half-heartedly. "Too busy thinking of you."

He nearly misses the way Clint's eyes go wide before he steps towards him and hoists Phil up, bracing him against his shoulder.

Phil leans in to kiss Clint's jaw, because even if this is a hallucination, he _really_ wants to kiss Clint (he _always_ wants to kiss Clint), but when his nose touches Clint's skin, Clint stiffens, and Phil draws back.

"That's right," he murmurs, as Clint carefully extracts him from his suit jacket before loosening his tie and gently laying him down on the couch.

"What's right?" Clint asks, sounding foggy, far away.

"No kissing on Tuesdays," Phil tries to say, but he falls asleep halfway through.

 

5.

When Clint knocks on the door before opening it, Phil's ready for him.

"Take a seat, Clint?" he asks, phrasing it more like a suggestion than an order, but Clint still freezes, eyes wary, darting around the room as if looking for a trap before settling on Phil.

"Are you..." Clint starts, unmoving, and his voice cracks, "Are you-"

When Phil finally understands what Clint is trying to say he's halfway around his desk before his brain catches on. "No, _no!_ " he shakes his head wildly. "I'm not breaking up with you. I just... want to talk."

Clint looks at him, still poised for flight, before slowly, ever so slowly, relaxing, shuffling in and settling himself across from Phil.

"Look, Clint," Phil says before realizing he really doesn't know how to start. All his plans hinge on reassuring Clint that everything is fine, but now that reassurance has been successfully navigated, Phil is at a loss.

Luckily, Clint provides an opening. "What did you want to talk about?"

Phil hesitates before continuing. "I wanted to let you know that I- well, I know that for some reason or another, you don't want me to kiss you on Tuesdays."

Opposite him, Clint goes still, but remains silent, so Phil has no choice but to go on, filling the silence with his ramblings, feeling more and more sheepish with every word. "I just want to say that I trust you to tell me what's wrong on your own terms, in your own time, but I want you to know that no matter what it is, no matter how important or trivial, I promise that I'll do my best to help."

Clint just stares, almost as if in shock, and worry slowly pools in Phil's stomach when he finally chokes out, "How can you promise that?"

It's lost, it's _vulnerable_ , and all Phil wants to do is take the hurt away and make Clint smile again.

"I can promise that because I'm in love with you, Clint." Phil offers, by way of explanation, and Clint's breath hitches and he closes his eyes, but Phil already sees the tears welling up in them.

A moment later, Clint is gone, the vent cover closing shut with a dulled clang, but the disappointment Phil feels is tempered by what he saw in Clint's eyes, blurry and indistinct, but still visible, still apparent.

Phil settles back in his chair and waits.

 

+1.

Clint has been avoiding him for the entire day, and Phil has already decided that the best way to prove to Clint that he trusts him is by avoiding the shooting range, letting Clint approach him when he musters up the courage.

Since he's felt the weight of a familiar pair of eyes coming from the ceiling vent more and more frequently as every hour passes, he thinks it's working pretty well.

Phil's already thought ahead to this, decided on a course of action, but his mouth still dries and his hands still tremble ever so slightly when he writes, _"Whenever you want,"_ on the back of the form he's working on, and then, after a moment, adds, _"I love you,"_ before slipping it to the side of his desk, in a prime location for observation from inside the vent above his desk.

A second passes, then another, and another, and Phil feels his heart sink as he realizes that he's _done it_ , he's scared Clint off, but then, in a single, breathless moment, Clint comes crashing down from the ceiling vent.

"Phil," he whimpers, but he doesn't need to because Phil is already there, pulling him into a tight embrace, whispering _I love you, I trust you, I need you_ into Clint's skin.

With a soft exhalation, Clint tilts Phil's face up before tenderly, ever so slowly, easing into a soft kiss.

Phil moans into Clint's mouth, feeling the archer's soft lips give under his own, before deepening it, clutching Clint tighter, hand grasping in Clint's blonde hair, laving his tongue across Clint's bottom lip.

Clint keens, a soft, pleased sound, before pushing Phil away, nipping gently at his lips before they part.

"It's stupid," he says, then, and Phil's heart breaks a little because _nothing_ that hurts Clint is stupid. "It's... It's-"

Clint stops, taking a deep breath, and Phil tugs him even closer, pushing their chests together, the archer's scent filling his nostrils, but the archer backs away slightly, putting space, dead, empty air between their bodies.

"It was always on Tuesday," Clint confesses, blue eyes looking away, anywhere but Phil, and Phil's gut wrenches because he's had his suspicions and the niggling voice at the back of his mind has just become more insistent.

"It started with my da-" Clint cuts himself off abruptly, choking on the word, and Phil represses every instinct that screams _HOLD_ because Clint can't feel caged in, can't feel trapped. Not now, not _ever_. "It started with the man who fathered me."

Clint shakes his head ineffectually, but makes no move to come closer, and Phil's skin burns at the lack of contact, the heat of Clint sending tingling goosebumps up and down his arms, so tantalizingly close but still unavailable, still untouchable.

"Monday was payday, pub day, and he'd spend all of my mother's hard earned money on booze." Clint angrily dabs at his eyes. "But it was Tuesday when he'd come back, his breath stinking with alcohol. Monday was payday, but Tuesday..."

Clint trails off, but Phil doesn't need him to vocalize the words, can already hear the unspoken _Tuesday was beating day_ hanging in the air unsaid, and he's filled with an all-consuming rage at Harold Barton, furious beyond words, wishing the man was somehow still alive so Phil could make him suffer for what he did to his son.

"The Swordsman picked it up."

Clint's voice is muted now, low and vulnerable, but he still won't move forward, and Phil can't hold in his pained breath. He's seen the scars adorning Clint's wrist, pale white curliques criss-crossing and intertwining, mesmerizing as the archer's sinuous forearms shift, almost hypnotic, but he'd never thought, never could've comprehended-

Clint smiles, but it's bitter, venomous. "Tuesday was _training_ _day,_ " he explains, and Phil can hear another man's voice in his words, another man's justification for crimes and pain and punishment for an undeserving child. "He'd have me shoot at the targets, and move them further and further away, but I was still shooting, shooting, shooting. And then I'd miss."

Phil's arms twitch, trembling from the effort he's exercising to keep them in place, keep them from closing around Clint, but Clint isn't moving. He's standing still, head down, and Phil is struck by the horrifying realization that _this is it_. He's pushed at secrets Clint wasn't ready to share, might _never_ have been ready to share, and he's pushed Clint away in the process.

"I'm sorry, Clint." Phil rasps, voice throaty with the ache of longing, and gives up hope, letting his hands fall, dropping his head, embarrassed and guilty. He'd finally gotten Clint to trust him, finally gotten Clint to open up, and _this_ is how he rewards Clint? God, he's so stupid! 

 _He's become exactly like everyone else in Clint's life_.

"Phil?"

Phil bites down a miserable laugh, because there is _no_ way Clint sounds so lost.

"I'm sorry I forced you to tell me," he chokes out, rusty with tears. "I shouldn't have. You're allowed to do things at your own pace. I was wrong, and I understand-" his voice breaks, but he forces himself to continue.

Even if giving Clint up is the most difficult thing he's ever done, he has to, because Clint deserves better. And isn't coming to terms with that realization more painful than anything he's ever gone through, death at the hands of a rampaging god included? "I understand if you don't want me anymore, want someone else because-"

"Aw, Phil, _no_ ," Clint murmurs, and Phil nearly jumps when strong, familiar arms wrap around him, holding him tightly. "Such an idiot," Clint says, and Phil's heart falters in his chest, because is Clint letting him down gently?

"I'm such an _idiot_." Clint repeats, this time with feeling, and Phil's eyes snap upwards, meeting blue eyes shining with tears and with remorse and with a burning, violent love that ignites a simmering heat in the pit of his stomach.

"You aren't an idiot." Phil corrects him, almost automatically, because Clint isn't stupid, Clint is _brilliant_ , and Clint shakes his head fondly before leaning into Phil, resting his head against Phil's shoulder, stifling a laugh in his shirt collar.

"I thought you weren't touching me because-" Clint starts, voice slightly muffled, "Because you couldn't. Because you couldn't look at me the same way after hearing what happened."

Phil blinks, because _he did not just hear that_.

He pushes Clint back, stumbling slightly as he backs away himself, holding Clint at arms length and letting Clint see the truth in his eyes, because Clint Barton is Hawkeye and seeing is what Hawkeye does best. Clint opens his mouth to say something, hurt and a sudden disbelief in his eyes, but Phil shakes his head and takes a deep breath.

"There will never, no matter the circumstances, be anything you can say to me that will make me stop loving you."

Clint stares at him, and he stares right back, even when Clint's eyes widen and his shocked expression slowly breaks into a smile, soft and watery. "I just wanted you to know," Phil adds, feeling slightly self conscious at the emotions projected by those blue eyes, because he still can't believe he's responsible for the open adoration in Clint's gaze.

"Is it too late to tell you I love you too?" Clint asks, almost jokingly, but Phil can read the vulnerability in his expression, and slowly shakes his head.

"It's never too late."

Clint's smile turns instantly, blindingly bright, before he's on Phil again, clutching him to his heart, and Phil can't help his own smile when Clint's mouth finds his, striving for control, and he lets himself melt into Clint's embrace, lets Clint's dizzying taste wash over him. Even dulled by coffee and sugar, it's still undeniably, overwhelmingly _Clint_ in its essence, and Clint steals away his surprised huff of laughter when he realizes Clint is honest-to-god _purring_ , the deep rumble vibrating through Phil's body and sending little sparks of pleasure shooting down to his crotch, and when the world spins around him and he realizes he's suddenly forgot how to breath, Clint seems to somehow read his mind, pulling back, ripping an unfulfilled sigh from Phil's throat because he could kiss Clint _forever_ and still be unsatisfied.

He has to stifle a moan when he takes in Clint, bright blue eyes wide open, awestruck and starry, and Clint raises a trembling ( _Phil made a sniper's hand tremble_ ) hand to his flushed, debauched mouth.

"Wow," Clint breaths, concise as always, drawing out the o, and Phil shivers, imagining those soft, oh so supple lips wrapped around something else.

"Wow," he replies himself, and Clint huffs a soft laugh at his grimace because he's nearly fifty. He has no right to sound so breathy, so _debauched_.

Clint ducks his head, and looks back at him shyly. "I really meant it," he admits. "I'm in love with you, Phil."

Phil isn't entirely successful in stifling his groan of pleasure at the sound because Clint's eyes darken. "I suppose I can kiss you on Tuesdays, then?" he tries, keeping the mood light, but Clint sees right through him, his lips curving into a wide, wicked grin that goes straight to Phil's groin.

"I can think of much more interesting things we could be doing on Tuesday," Clint rumbles, and Phil has to close his eyes and fight to keep his breathing even because _oh my god_.

"I'll just..." he waves ineffectually at the papers scattered on his desk, "Pack up?"

Clint's grin softens, turns affectionate, teasing, and he arches his back, picking up Phil's briefcase, cupping the firm globes of his ass (voted number one in S.H.I.E.L.D) as he rises back up, and Phil shoves his thumb in his mouth and bites because that _cannot_  be fair.

"It'll keep," Clint teases, and pulls Phil into another searing kiss, pulling back before Phil can really get into it, and he resists giving into making grabby hands, belatedly realizing (with more than a little concern) that Stark is apparently rubbing off on him.

Clint pauses at the doorway. "You coming?"

Phil smiles, then. "For you, always."

Clint snorts to cover up his (decidedly goofy) grin, but Phil can see the faint pink of a blush color Clint's cheeks as he moves closer.

"Sap." he accuses, and Phil decides, _screw it_ , he can play dirty as well.

"Not the way I meant it," he hums noncommittally, leaving Clint gaping at him as he passes, putting a little bit of extra sway in his step, because Phil was voted third best ass in S.H.I.E.L.D and Clint has already professed an inordinate weakness for his suits.

"Hurry up," he calls, after looking back and seeing Clint frozen, making no move to begin walking, and Clint finally shakes his head, a quick, almost birdlike motion, and bounds to catch up.

"You sure as _fuck_ will be coming when I'm done with you," Clint promises in Phil's ear when he's finally close enough, voice husky, gravelly, and Phil smiles, uncaring of the gawping agents around them (since Agent Coulson is only an emotionless machine when Clint isn't there). If Clint talks dirty in bed, then this whole Tuesday is shaping up to be the Tuesday other Tuesdays are judged by.

Well, considering he's going to have Clint "Best Ass in S.H.I.E.L.D", "Arms Made of Porn" Barton in his bed, this Tuesday is already going to set the standard for every Tuesday before (and probably after) it. Whatever. Phil doesn't care, he can be flexible when he wants to.

He looks forward to showing Clint exactly _how_ flexible, later.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings** : Vague mentions of past child abuse, hints of non-consensual cutting (not graphic, only scars referenced), and a truckload of self-worth issues shared equally between these two dorks.


End file.
